Great Uncle George’s War

This story begins with Betsy Somerville’s relationship with George Dick, who was proven in court to be the father of her son John. It’s 1890 and Betsy gives birth to another son – called George. This time, there’s no father’s name given. George Dick is now married to Agnes McCallum and living not far away. Could he be George’s father? But there’s another possible candidate for the paternal role. In the 1901 census, she’s living at another address and she has a visitor – George Livingstone, a 29 year old (married) painter from Rothesay. Mr Livingstone’s wife is not present.

That’s almost everything I know about young George. Aged 10, he was still in school but his oldest brother Jim was already hard at work in the coalfields of Lanarkshire. It’s likely that both John and George followed Jim down the pits, as there was little alternative for a working man at that time in that place. But I don’t know for sure. My granddad John would go on to be a butcher, but that was much later. Before that, the world as the family knew it would change forever following the assassination of an archduke in Sarajevo in the summer of 1914. George was photographed at Gilmore’s in Hamilton looking pensive but smartly dressed in a suit of fine check and a gemstone tie pin. His face is youthful and he has the trademark protruding Somerville ears.

When we see him next, he’s in the uniform of The Cameronians (Scottish Rifles). The origins of the Cameronians are firmly set in Lanarkshire, with the regiment’s first muster taking place on the banks of the Douglas Water in 1689. A declaration was read to the assembled men:

“All shall be well affected, of approved fidelity and of a sober conversation. The cause they are called to appear for, is the service of the King’s Majesty and the defence of the Nation, recovery and preservation of the Protestant Religion; and in particular the work of reformation in Scotland, in opposition to Popery prelacy and arbitrary power in all its branches and steps, until the Government of Church and State be brought back to that lustre and integrity which it had in the best times.”


The soldiers of this regiment were zealous Covenanters, whose devotion to the National Covenant of 1638 and the Solemn League & Covenant of 1643 meant that they would even do battle to defend their freedom to worship as they chose. When the crown ejected ministers from their parishes for refusing to submit to the rule of bishops, the Covenanters followed them to the hills and worshipped at open air services which came to be called conventicles. As the threat from government forces increased the Covenanters began to carry weapons to their conventicles and to post armed pickets to keep a lookout. The Cameronians were a unique part of Scottish history for over three hundred years. Their sad end came with the defence cuts of the 1960s and their name was finally erased from the Army List in 1995.

Since the 1880s, the recruiting base for the Cameronians had been located in Lanarkshire and George probably enlisted in Hamilton. His Battalion, the 10th, was formed at Hamilton in September 1914 and were attached to 46th Brigade, 15th (Scottish) Division. By July of 1915, the battalion was in France.

I don’t have George’s service records, as many were lost in a WWII bombing raid on the War Office in 1940. The surviving service and pension records – or Burnt Documents as they are known – were later microfilmed by the National Archives, but unfortunately George’s is not among them. So I have no idea what battles he fought in.

But I do have the 10th Batallion’s War Diary for March 1918, excerpts of which are given below. The language is military and understated, but it is still compelling reading. Rifleman George Somerville was in C Company.


10th SCOTTISH RIFLES
SUMMARY OF OPERATIONS ON MARCH 28th 1918
The Battalion had been relieved in the Front Line by the 9th Black Watch on the night 27/28th March. On completion of relief the Battalion withdrew to the Army Line and were in Brigade Reserve.
Dispositions:-
Right Front – D. Coy. Left Front – A. Coy.
Right Support – C. Coy. Left Support – B. Coy.
Battalion H.Q. – Dugout at ESTAMINET CORNER.

All ranks were accommodated in their new positions by 1.30 a.m. 28th March 1918. Night was fairly quiet until 3 a.m. when heavy shelling commenced, gas shells being used for 2 hours. The enemy had previously indulged in heavy shelling of selected localities. Shelling continued until 7.30 a.m. when it became intense. Companies afterwards reported that no Company Runners were able to get within 200 yards of Battalion H.Q, ESTAMINET CORNER, WILDERNESS CAMP and ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD being severely barraged with all calibres. At 8.15 a.m. the Master Cook of the 7th CAMERON HIGHLANDERS rushed into Battalion H.Q. and stated that his Battalion had been very seriously shelled for 4 hours, that heavy casualties had occurred and that the enemy had attacked, penetrating their front line.

At 9.45 a.m. C. Coy. under CAPT. J.S. MUNRO moved off to counter attack. At this time the enemy could be seen coming over the ridge (ORANGE HILL) in small parties and occupying our old front. Support and Reserve positions (JERUSALEM, CROMARTY and INVERGORDON TRENCHES) on the right of the Brigade Front. At 10 a.m. the Company counter attacking had reached the FEUCHY CHAPEL – FEUCHY ROAD with very few casualties.

At 10.30 a.m. orders were received at Battalion H.Q. (Support Line) from G.O.C. 46th Infantry Brigade to stop the counter attack. These orders were sent on at once by runner and were received by the Company Commander at 10.15 a.m. The Company was accordingly withdrawn, still in Artillery Formation. One Officer and about 30 men of the Company had at this stage become casualties and the enemy were firing fairly heavily on Company with machine guns. The Officer and some of the men were able to regain our lines with the assistance of a covering party.

At 11 a.m. the enemy appeared to have ceased advancing on our immediate front and were consolidating in our old front, support and reserve lines, using CALIFORNIA TRENCH as his front line.

At 6 p.m. it became obvious that enemy was withdrawing South of ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD. With the exception of a party of 30 – 40 of the enemy, which crept up ditches of the ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD, the enemy infantry never pressed home any attack on the Army Line North of the WANCOURT ROAD, and did not come in any strength beyond our old BROWN LINE.

At 4.30 p.m. a gap existed in the Front Line between 46th and 45th Brigades. This was closed by the Front Line Companies side stepping South. At dusk one Company was pushed out as Outpost to occupy shell holes keeping touch with the enemy. Outpost Line on the Right was 50 yards East of BOIS des BOEUFS, on the Left about 200 yds West of FEUCHY CHAPEL – FEUCHY ROAD. The night was quiet except for intermittent shelling of Support Line and Communications.

Casualties sustained during the day :-
Officers Killed :- CAPT. G. McCALL M.C.
LIEUT. G.W. JAMIESON
2.LT. J.W. KERR.
Officers Wounded :- LIEUT. J. MacKENZIE
2.LT. J.R. ROBB.
Other Ranks Killed 22
” ” Wounded 113. Other Ranks Missing 25.

All the Officers in B. Company became casualties and it was necessary to transfer a subaltern from C. Company to take over Command. Most of the casualties were sustained in the Support Line. Officers, Warrant Officers, N.C.Os and men behaved well under heavy shell fire and trying conditions. It was not possible to give the men hot food for 48 hours.


George Somerville was one of the 113 men (the Other Ranks) who were wounded that day in France. I know that he was taken to a field hospital, but from there it’s unclear what happened. Family legend has it that he contracted pneumonia but the record of his medals gives Died of Wounds as cause of death. The horror of battle conditions and the slaughter of countless young men in the Great War has been well documented. George managed to survive three years at the Front and was 27 years of age when he died, only a few months before the end of hostilities. His brother Jack, my grandfather, who served with the Royal Garrison Artillery, came home safe from the war to marry his sweetheart and live out his life in Lanarkshire. If there was anything to be grateful for in that terrible time, it was that Betsy did not have to mourn the deaths of two sons. Over 7,000 Cameronians lost their lives in the conflict.

The National Archives hold a collection of Medal Record cards for World War I and from this, I know that George was awarded three medals: the ’15 Star, awarded to individuals who saw service from 5 August 1914 to 31 December 1915; the British War medal, which was awarded to eligible service personnel and civilians alike. The basic requirement for army personnel and civilians was that they either entered a theatre of war, or rendered approved service overseas between 5 August 1914 and 11 November 1918; and the Victory Medal, awarded to all eligible personnel who served on the establishment of a unit in an operational theatre.


George lies in Wimereux Cemetery in Northern France. His grave is tended by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.





And just by where he grew up in Cemetery Road, Blantyre, a monument commemorates the dead of the war to end all wars. My great-uncle George’s name is there.




1. Many men sent silk embroidered postcards from France to their families at home. Each regiment and corps had its own design and George may have sent a card like the one pictured to his mother.
2. Read the full article about Betsy here
3. I am most grateful to The Cameronians Museum in Hamilton for the War Diary of the 10th Batallion Scottish Rifles (The Cameronians).
4. Thanks to my cousin, Ian Somerville, for the photo of the Blantyre memorial.
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 30, 2011 Genealogy

She Calls Me Teddy

She calls me Teddy. Unoriginal I know but I don’t mind. This is my story. I belonged first to the little boy who was conceived in the closing months of the war. He was an intense child, but very careful with his toys. My fur stayed fresh and clean and although I was well hugged, I sustained no injuries during my time with him. But being a boy, he went onto more boyish things in time, and in his eighth year, he was absorbed with his Airfix model aeroplane kits and I lay abandoned in a cupboard.


His sister was born then and she became my second human. We were constant companions. The mother altered the child’s old barricot gowns to fit me so I would be warmly swaddled for our visits to the park. The girl would push me back and forth on the swings (she was a little afraid to swing on them herself at this time) and hug me tight while she spun on the roundabout. We went to the zoo where, tucked into her pushchair, I gazed at some distant cousin bears and they gazed back at me. I was glad to be friend and comfort to this anxious little girl, but oh she was hard on my health…. First I lost one of my bright bead brown eyes in too vigorous a game. The mother kept the eye in her button box, meaning to mend me, I know. Then a tussle with her brother, tugged this way and that, resulted in an arm being pulled out of place, so much so that my straw threatened to spill out. The mother patched my wound with an old sheet but my shoulder was never the same again.

In time the little girl grew into a woman. She still suffered from night fears and secretly cuddled me in the small, lonely hours. I listened to all her hopes and fears and knew that I was much loved. In time, of course, we grew less close and I became more of a watcher than a participant in her life.


She was a troubled wanderer and I went in and out of packing cases more times than I wish to remember. She would say that it wasn’t truly home until Teddy had been unpacked and put in pride of place. Thankfully, she became more careful with her things, although one of my ears has never recovered from a gooey mess of medicine that spilled onto me during a sickly winter.

I’m an old bear now – I was made more than 60 years ago – and my paws and snout are sparse and worn. I never did have plush for fur and was always entirely the wrong colour. No toy historian will ever look at me and exclaim ‘Why, this bear is rare and terribly valuable’. Times were hard when I was made, and I was and am a very ordinary bear. I still have pride of place in a corner of her bedroom and sometimes she taps my nose affectionately as she passes. Now she’s about to take my photograph. I know I’m pretty battered looking, but we wartime bears are stoic, and I’ll try to look my best.




Photo © Rachel Cowan



Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 30, 2011 Gallimaufry

Swedish Design in the ’30s

In 1932, Erik Ljungberg established a record label, AB Sonora, produced entirely in Sweden. Sonoras were sold originally at 2 krone but the price was reduced to 1.65 krone during 1933. Ljungberg sold the label to Philips in 1958. The company also produced a portable gramophone.

Although all that’s interesting, what really grabs my attention about this record sleeve is the fabulous design. There are two fonts in classic black and red. I particularly love the uppercase E & S and lower case f & r of the script font. The contrasting blocky font has just a few subtle serifs and is mainly used in uppercase. One text block reads “Giv arbete åt svenska arbetare” which translates as “Give work to Swedish workers”.

And just look at that great little logo at the foot of the sleeve. Feet like musical notes and a disc-shaped body – but what’s with the little flag apparently flying from the bridge of his nose? Who cares when it’s designed with such flair?

[More information on Sonora can be found here.]
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 29, 2011 Graphics

Bobby Bell an the doos

saft, sleepy cooin’ frae above
the clock – set
at first light
afore ah wiz up
low voices so the wean didnae hear

- grand day -
- ah hear there’s rain ower the Campsies -
- this wind’ll blaw them back -
- first time this year ah’ve been oot in mah sleeves an’ galluses -
- aye another cup’d be grand, thanks Helen -

straps o’ sun on the claithespoles
- mind mah maw complainin’ boot her washin’
thae bluidy birds! wi’ her wee fist shakin’ -

- aye Bobby keeps a guid loft -
- ken he payeed twenty smackeroonies fir his lead bird -
- naw! -
- aye that sun’s warm eh -

dad’s snorin’ in his deckchair
- Tam, yir tea’ll gang cauld -
bees buzzin’ on Louie’s roses
sun creepin’ ower the greens

- ah hear Archie McCrindle pits oot his wife’s bakin’ fir tae get them in -
- that wid mak them turn aroon’ an’ gang awa! -
- a’ ye need’s a good lassie doo – they’ll come hame fir that -

- want tae hold her? mind now, hold her wings like this -
heather ‘n slate ‘n moss glintin’ in the sun
an’ her hairt beatin’ hard against ma haund
bright ee regards me – you’re no’ the wan
- aye, see her lookin’? she kens he’s close -
- nearly five – no long noo -

- whit’s that? ower there -
- I cannae see – whaur?
gees the clock – gees the clock quick
it’s him – ahm shair it’s him
c’moan my wee lad, c’moan -

droppin’ oot the sky
feathers flurryin’
landin’ feet perfect
only the mesh separatin’ him
frae his beloved noo

- aye just a meenit, laddie
let’s git this ring aff first
then she’s a’ yours -

ding!
- aye that’s it -
- by bit that’s a good time -
- aye no bad -
- first one hame again then Bobby -
- aye


❦ To listen to me reading this poem, click the audio player below. ❦

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Photo © Rachel Cowan
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 28, 2011 Poetry

Aunt Effie’s Wedding

Aunt Effie’s wedding photo. The guests, their ages ranging from age 73 to 2 months, are posing dutifully for the photographer on a fine June day in Hamilton, Lanarkshire. Close family members of the bride and groom are packed together on benches in the front row and the rest of the guests are ranged behind, groom’s folk to the photographer’s left, bride’s to his right.

A solemn looking young minister stands directly behind the happy couple. There’s almost a complete set of three generations of Bensons present, although the second wife of the bride’s grandfather is not in the photo. There are at least four individuals named Robert Benson. And the bride’s sister, Retta, married five years before, has a two month old baby on her knee – my mother. The men, wearing heather in their buttonholes, are almost all employed in the coal mines, excepting my grandfather Somerville, who is a butcher. Aunt Effie, by marrying Tom Wilson, is marrying up. He is at the time of his marriage a bank clerk and will later rise to the position of bank manager. Five of the men, including the groom, sport stiffened wing collars and seven of the women have furs draped around their necks, notwithstanding the season.

Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 28, 2011 Genealogy

Illumined Wasteland

© Rachel Cowan


Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 27, 2011 Digital Art

Everyone’s Favourite Fish – The Red Herring

The Red Herring is a common fish scooped up in its thousands in nets of genealogists worldwide. It’s almost as common in the Mare Genealogica as familia fabula (family myth).


Being red, it stands out on a page of closely packed type with the scintillating header of COR-CRO: 15 of 385 pages. Being friendly (and equipped with special fins) it catches your eye, waves at you as you try to place where you know it from…

It has a familiar face, it’s got your grandmother’s nose and it says it was born only 10 miles from the birthplace you have on your record – can it be – yes it must be – it’s that long-lost relative you thought you’d never find. Hallelujah.

But beware – red herrings are the cuckoos of the seas. Hidden behind that cuddly exterior is a whole shoal of bogus relations who will, before you realise what’s happening, devour your entire family tree.

How can you spot one of these interlopers? Here’s an example – if Auntie Mabel’s husband Fred appears to have been born before his youngest child, maybe he’s not the Fred you thought he was, the one so beloved by the family who could pull rabbits out of balloons. Or another: you gleefully follow the red herring’s ancestors back two generations to find you’re descended from an Uzbekhi tribesman and everyone knows that the family has always hailed from Nether Wallop.


Having spotted one, what to do? Gentle genealogist, there’s no easy way to say this. Get rid of it. Fling the baby out with the bathwater. Whisper ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to end like this’ as you delete it from your files if you must, but it has to go. Think how much tidier your tree will be without Uncle Willie who seemed to have married 37 women in quick succession. Think how you’ll never again have to search the frozen steppes of Russia in vain for Agnes Macklethwaite who married Ernest Jones.

So your tree is a little bare now and only dates back to 1933 – no matter, now it’s echt, it’s real. Your mother doesn’t talk to you any more since you found that she isn’t the long lost daughter of Frank Sinatra – she’ll get over it, tell her you’re doing it My Way. And all those people on rootsweb lists who embraced you as a long-lost 2nd cousin thrice removed and invited you to their ‘cosy home’ deep in the Catskills will soon find someone else to cherish.

And finally, don’t grieve for the Red Herring. He’s guaranteed to be clasped to the bosoms of the next fleet of genealogists to come along with the words “Henry! it’s You!”

Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 25, 2011 Genealogy

Photos 4

I was taking a cut-through from St Stephen Street and blocking my view (it was stopped at traffic lights) was this rubbish lorry. We used to call them the bucketmen and I’m not sure when buckets became bins. Perhaps around the same time that the word lorry was replaced with the Americanised truck?

It’s not what one would call a beautiful view, but just look at the design that’s gone into it. The colour scheme on the buttons, the shapes and spacing – so much detail on what is, after all, a completely utilitarian vehicle. I got just one shot before the lights changed and the truck moved off.

It was one of those blustery, chilly days and I was at the front at Silverknowes. I went into the little cafe which is one of the most uninspiring places I know to have a cup of coffee. Approaching the counter, I heard two voices yelling, a man and a woman.

The argument was conducted in Russian and the man was definitely getting the worst of it. My genteel cough to draw attention to myself went unheard, and eventually I joined in the yelling HELLO CAN I HAVE A COFFEE PLEASE?

Hugging my insipid coffee (nuked in the microwave) I gazed out at the bleak beach, the tide a mere dribble. The mobile ice cream ad seemed completely incongruous – a gloriously grim landscape. Once I’d thawed out, I took some pictures. As I was doing this, the woman from the cafe came past me and sniffed contemptuously.

All Photographs © Rachel Cowan


Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 24, 2011 Photos

Boycat and Companion



Let me introduce you to the boycat. He came to me when he was already middle aged and now he’s a bit of an old gentleman. Let’s be clear, he’s first and foremost himself. Cat. He’s not my child or my friend, but he is my closest and dearest companion.

His ability to turn a willing human into a slave who meets his every need is unparallelled and I am more than happy to play along. He lives quietly, straying only from the courtyard into the surrounding back gardens, but is still reluctant, even at the age of sixteen (or more), to give up his dominant attitude towards other cats. This is not a cat who’s short on confidence.

He has introduced himself to many neighbours, usually by walking in an open front door and miaowing loudly. Accordingly, he’s not short of places to have a quiet snooze or cadge a saucer of milk. I’ve tried to cut off his supplies but it’s a losing battle. He can’t be doing with ‘senior’ catfood – he’ll simply eat twice as much of the stuff.

He still sometimes initiates play sessions, although this may be more about pleasing me than anything else. He likes his routines – out early, morning patrol, back for a snack, out again to lie around the courtyard and catch up with the feline neighbours. Then an extended nap before tea, out again for evening patrol and finally lots of fuss and affection while the human reads in bed.

This guy knew what he was doing when he picked me – what cat could ask for more?

Photo © Rachel Cowan
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 24, 2011 Gallimaufry

Ethel’s Book

Ethel

How was she to know if she’d really seen God? She couldn’t ask the vicar because they didn’t let her attend Sunday service any more. Just because she got muddled that once and went to the 11 o’clock with knit-lock knickers over her frock.

They’d be sorry, she told them. She was the only one who knew the words to the hymns and definitely the only one to applaud the sermon. So when God appeared to her in the bookies, she was sceptical. Reg had been the gambler in their family. He’d say that God was on his side when he made a bit of a killing, but she knew he didn’t really believe.

She had started going to the bookies after he died. He was taken sudden, just before his horse crossed the line at Aintree. She liked the overhead telly and the company of Doreen, who took the betting slips and gave her a cuppa sometimes. That day though, nobody was paying her any attention, although she’d worn her pink water wings especially.

But there He was, in a corner. Kind eyes and a full head of hair despite His age. He wasn’t performing miracles or anything like that, He was just stood there. Looking out the window. Nonetheless, she knew Him straightaway. Well, you couldn’t not, could you? She’d have liked to speak to Him really, have a bit of a chat, but the Carmen rollers that Rosemary had given her for Christmas were starting to dig in so it was probably time to head home.

Where was home nowadays? Reg would have known. Come to think of it, where was Reg? He’d only gone out for a pound of sausages and some dripping, he should have been back by now.

She went out the door and waved to God as she passed the window. He looked right at her and smiled. So that was all right.

Doreen

I don’t mind. It’s sad really. Her old man was one of my regulars – evil old sod he was. Nearly always half-cut when he come in – I had to show him the door more than once. A bookies isn’t a ladies tea shop but you’ve got to have some standards, haven’t you?

He hadn’t been dead that long when she started coming. He’d keeled over at Aintree, she said. Before the finish and all. His horse didn’t win anyway – I checked. At least she got to keep the housekeeping that week. I think she came out of curiosity – told me she’d never been inside a bookies in her life. Different times, I said. I suppose she wanted to see where Reg spent his time. Back then of course, she was all there. Sharp as a tack.

I never call her Ethel – she’s always Mrs Jenkins to me. And she calls me Mrs Thompson even though I said call me Doreen but she wasn’t having any. To be honest, she’s a bit of light relief. What with Mr Jack-The-Lad swanning off to meet his bit of stuff most lunchtimes and young Tracy with her head stuck in Hello magazine, it can get a bit lonely in here. I see her coming, usually with the shopping trolley trailing behind, and I put on the kettle. She never refuses a cuppa. Sometimes she brings biscuits with her, though I tell her she needn’t. What are they called – those biscuits – I had them as a kid – shortbread with jam in the middle – Jammie something or other.

She likes watching the big screen. I know she’s got a telly at home, because she told me, but I think it’s one of those little ones and her eyesight isn’t what it was. I help her up onto one of the stools in the corner and make sure she’s settled before I go back to work. If it’s quiet, we have a bit of a chat. I’ve told her about my Claire, how worried we are, and she talks about Eric, her son. He’s a soldier, she says, looks lovely in his uniform. My husband told me that Eric was killed in the ’70s, on one of those training exercises they have on Dartmoor. He says I shouldn’t encourage her, but I don’t see why not. He’s alive in her mind, isn’t he – what’s so wrong with that?

She’s started to dress a bit funny recently. We’re not quite at the knickers on the head stage but I can see it’s not far off. One day she was limping and I asked her what was wrong. She said she hadn’t been able to find the other shoe – and when I looked down, she was wearing one high heeled court and one slipper with a pink cat on it.

The other day, she was all excited. Asked me if I’d seen Him. “Him?” I said. “Who?” “Him” she said. “God”. I was taken aback, I don’t mind telling you. I knew she’d been a church-goer, but she never talked about that side of things. Then she said that He’d been here – in the bookies. I said “How did you know it was God?” She looked at me pityingly and said “You just know, don’t you?” Not a lot you can say to that. She said He smiled at her and that she gave Him a bit of a wave.

I hope it’s not going to be a pattern. This God thing. We had a punter, years ago, who thought he was Jesus Christ. Knew all the dead certs. Said that when his big win came up, he’d share it with us. Seeing as how he never won more than a fiver, I couldn’t see how that would work. Like the loaves and the fishes, he said. He came to a sticky end, that one. The pretend Jesus Christ.

Reverend Clive

He rather missed Ethel and her lusty rendition of the old hymns. And was it prideful of him to admit that her spontaneous applause for his humdrum sermons gave him not only great pleasure but the courage to persist with his ministry in this city backwater?

When he arrived here sixteen years ago, she was among the first to welcome him with a chocolate cake of her own making, he remembered. He was a young curate then, too green to know that the consumption of parishioners’ baked goods was to be undertaken with caution. He was ill for three days and three nights. Although hardly on a scale with the tribulations of St John, he emerged from the experience feeling righteously purged.

Ethel had her troubles. That indolent husband of hers who ranged only as far as the pub or the bookies. And a soldier son killed in a tragic accident on Dartmoor. But she remained a lively and buoyant character. The ladies on the Church Flowers rota were however not fond of her and neither was his own dear wife, a rather unforgiving woman. He smiled as he remembered Ethel’s controversial Harvest Thanksgiving – Weeds Are Flowers Too.

When his conscience pricked him, he would pay a pastoral visit to the small terraced house she’d lived in for over fifty years. He made a point of wearing his clerical collar on these occasions since the time when Ethel mistook him for Reg, her deceased husband, and became disconcertingly flirtatious over a plate of Jammie Dodgers. He rather regretted that the collar was now considered unfashionable by most of his congregation.

He hoped that when her time came, as come it must to all souls, they would ask him to conduct the service, even if it took place at the council crematorium rather than in the arched Victorian splendour of St Michael’s. He would instruct the young organist engaged for these occasions to play two of Ethel’s favourites; ‘Fight The Good Fight’ and ‘Nearer, My God, To Thee’.

Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 24, 2011 Stories